


Snakebite

by FeralCreed



Category: The Losers (2010), The Losers (Comic)
Genre: Team as Family, dumbasses being dumbasses, no beta we die like men, yes this is really what i do instead of sleeping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:48:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22798813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeralCreed/pseuds/FeralCreed
Summary: I saw a screencap of that tumblr post where it's like "If you bite it and you die, it's poisonous" and it inevitably goes right to "well that's kinky" in about five replies because tumblr. And it made me think of our favorite team.I evidently have no self-control when I have the chance to write a dumb crackfic when I should be sleeping.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 26





	Snakebite

The Losers are in an environment surprisingly quiet and devoid of explosions, considering they've all been drinking out on the porch of their safehouse for the last hour. Jensen was only drawn from his computer by the smell of Roque making jambalaya for dinner, where the rest of the team had already gathered in the kitchen. Even Cougar was all but hovering, despite the fact that he was sitting against the far wall of the kitchen, reassembling his rifle after yet another thorough cleaning. 

It's Florida, too hot to be outside during the day, but at night it's almost bearable. And the patio is screened in so they don't have to worry about mosquitoes draining all their blood before they've even settled in their chairs. Pooch had the luck to find a cooler, and despite their drinks having been in the kitchen all day, leaving them in ice for a few hours while they ate has them at a very agreeable temperature. 

Their discussion had started over dinner. Clay had asked what Roque put in the food, to which Roque had replied that he'd killed a snake that came out from under the porch. Nobody had quite been able to tell if he was joking. Pooch had looked in the kitchen trash can and found packaging from steak, which had put everyone's mind at ease. Roque had proceeded to be cranky at them and inform them, repeatedly, in loud tones, that he had some goddamn class and wasn't going to feed them all snake when they had American-grown beef in the freezer. 

The Losers being the Losers, it hadn't been long before they'd started discussing the chances of Roque having poisoned them if he'd actually made snake jambalaya for them to eat. 

“If you bite it and you die, it's poisonous,” Jensen explains, brow furrowed in thought. He gestures vaguely with a half-empty beer bottle. He's already said this, he thinks, but he's pretty sure he hasn't already told them the next part. “But if it bites you and you die, it's venomous.” 

The team is silent for a moment as they think about this. 

“What if it bites me and it dies?” Roque asks. Nobody is surprised that he's the one to ask about the details of something dying if it bit him. Sometimes, when Clay drinks absinthe, he claims that someone did in fact die after biting Roque, but they've never been able to get the rest of the story out of him. 

“That means you're poisonous, Jesus, Roque, what did I just say?” 

“What if it bites itself and I die?” Clay interrupts before anyone can respond. He gives Roque a well-practiced _don't murder our techie_ look and Roque responds with a scowl. 

“It's voodoo,” Jensen supplies after a moment's thought. “I think.” 

Pooch tilts his head. “What if it bites me and someone else dies?” 

“That's correlation, not causation,” Jensen answers. 

Pooch hums in what Jensen thinks is acceptance. Or just realization that his bottle is empty, because he sets it down a moment later to reach for another. He twists the top off and flicks it at Cougar, who catches it in midair despite the brim of his hat covering his face. His rifle was left inside, and now he works on cleaning his pistol, the rag sliding lazily across part after part as he listens to the conversation unfolding in front of him. 

“What if we bite each other and neither of us die?” Clay suggests with a grin and a raised eyebrow. Pooch and Roque groan. Of course it was Clay who inevitably brought up something sexual. Jensen starts laughing, because Jensen has never been mature a day in his life. 

“That's kinky.” 

Everyone stops to stare at Cougar. He tilts the brim of his hat up, just a little, and gives them a slow, lazy smirk. He's smug. Jensen can tell, can read it all over his face, that Cougar is proud of himself for catching everyone off guard. Jensen loves that dry sense of humor that comes out at the most unexpected of times – even more than he loves the expression Clay wears long enough for him to get a picture. 

“Smile, Colonel,” he says cheerfully, and takes a selfie that captures not only Clay's priceless look but Roque's face creased in laughter. Pooch is snickering as he leans over for a fist-bump, and Jensen makes only a minimal protest when his cell phone is stolen so that the other man can get a better look at the photo. 

Cougar sits back, smirk firmly in place as he puts his arm up on the back of the porch swing and takes a sip of his beer. His team is the strangest bunch he's ever seen, but they're his family. And on nights like these – hot, humid, summer nights, with the cicadas drowning out all other sounds but their laughter, and everything else too sleepy to move – he loves them more than anything.


End file.
